


Left That Body Long Ago

by thegrimshapeofyoursmile



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, alzheimers!dandelion, geralt x dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:20:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5479682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrimshapeofyoursmile/pseuds/thegrimshapeofyoursmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Mh,” Dandelion answers, meeting his lips with his own and wrapping his legs around Geralt’s waist as Geralt rolls on top of him. “What’s the time?”<br/>For a moment, Geralt blinks, then he laughs. “You’re still asleep, apparently,” he teases, kissing one of Dandelion’s brows. “I already told you seconds ago.”<br/>/// Modern AU where Dandelion is slowly losing himself to Alzheimers and Geralt has to watch it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Early Stage

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Amy MacDonald's "Left That Body Long Ago", a really beautiful song about her grandmother who suffered from Alzheimer's as well. Since my grandmother has dementia as well, this is a really personal fic in many ways and it probably will be hard to fill it, but I'll do it!
> 
> It's based on a tumblr prompt which you can find on queerwitcher.tumblr.com. basically the idea was to write a fic based on google entries from Dandelion as his illness develops. Those entries are the little subtitles in italics that structure the chapters.

_Alzheimers syndroms_

Dandelion is still asleep when Geralt stretches in the morning sun, his naked back an elegant line between the white sheets. Geralt watches him for a moment between two yawns before he stretches out a hand and lets his fingertips slide over Dandelion’s spine. There is silver in his raven-black hair already, silver that probably only Geralt can see through the tons of dye Dandelion uses to carefully make sure that nobody can notice that he is not young anymore, at least not on his hair. He ages so well that Geralt has wondered whether Dandelion might have a bit of elven blood or not every now and then for quite some years now; if he does, they will never know and it is just as well. 

Dandelion moans and turns around, snuggling deeper into Geralt’s arms with a sigh. There are faint lines around his eyes, more visible now as he is sleeping. Geralt carefully strokes his hair, kisses his temple and smiles against Dandelion’s still soft skin when the musician stirs.

“What’s the time?” he murmurs, sighing softly when Geralt gently turns his face enough to the side to be able to kiss him. 

“It’s around ten,” Geralt says and wraps his arms closer around him, kissing him again.

“Mh,” Dandelion answers, meeting his lips with his own and wrapping his legs around Geralt’s waist as Geralt rolls on top of him. “What’s the time?”

For a moment, Geralt blinks, then he laughs. “You’re still asleep, apparently,” he teases, kissing one of Dandelion’s brows. “I already told you seconds ago.”

“I knew that,” Dandelion answers, but his reply comes moments too late and with quickened heartbeat. After another second, he gently rolls his hips against Geralt’s, his fingers gliding over Geralt’s back down to his ass. “Fuck me.”

Since following that request is not too difficult, Geralt obliges, fingering Dandelion open with patience and love before he slides into him. Dandelion is warm and wet and inviting, showering him with open-mouthed kisses and small moans. This lovemaking is what Dandelion has started to prefer for quite some years now and Geralt is happy to give him whatever he wants, even more so when it is no sacrifice for him to do so at all. 

Afterwards, Dandelion stretches languidly and gives him a soft peck on the lips before he leaves the bed to walk into the bathroom. Geralt watches him go, smiling to himself before he decides to follow him. Maybe there he can persuade Dandelion to another round; his lover is not a young boy anymore, but he usually indulges Geralt with several more rounds if he is needy enough. 

Dandelion is standing in front of the washing sink, blinking at himself in the bathroom mirror. He seems to be lost in thoughts and Geralt seizes the moment to press small kisses along the line of his shoulders. He can see the stubble on Dandelion’s cheeks and chin in the mirror, an indicator that he has not shaved for a few days now, which is certainly quite unusual. Dandelion meets his gaze with a smile and pats his cheek before he looks around again with a sigh. 

“Looking for something?” Geralt asks and cannot help but frown a little.

“My glasses,” Dandelion says with a sigh and a shake of his head before he steps into the shower, pulling Geralt with him. “Ah, well. I guess I’ll find them later.”

_Local Doctors_

„Where have you been?“ Geralt asks as soon as Dandelion is through the door. He has been away the last few weeks due to a mission and expected his lover to be at home when coming back. Dandelion looks at him with wide eyes full of surprise before he smiles and drops his coat to jump into his arms. He has gotten lighter since Geralt has been away and Geralt catches himself worrying whether Dandelion has forgotten to eat again. It happens sometimes when his mind is far away – and it has been far away often in the last months. 

“You’re back home sooner!” Dandelion exclaims and kisses both of his cheeks, slightly longer stubble grazing Geralt’s skin as he does so. “That’s a first!”

“I’ve always said I’ll be back today,” Geralt corrects him with a grin and strokes Dandelion’s locks, noticing with surprise that it is full of silver streaks nobody bothered to dye. “Have you finally become comfortable with the thought of aging, darling?”

“Never,” Dandelion answers with vehemence, kissing his cheek again. “I will never age.”

“You haven’t dyed your hair, though.”

“What are you talking about?” Dandelion asks with a small laughter in his voice and shakes his head. “I always do.”

“Well, you haven’t now,” Geralt says affectionately, “But it doesn’t matter, I like how it looks.”

Dandelion looks at him for a long, long moment with utter silence. There is something in his eyes and the lines of his face, but then he just smiles and looks away. “I’ll dye them tomorrow,” he says, “I’ve been busy the last few days, I must have forgotten. I’m writing a new song, you know? Maybe it’ll also be a ballad, I don’t know yet. The process is going a bit slow.”

“Tell me about it,” Geralt says while he walks after his lover into the kitchen and opens the fridge to take a look inside. The fridge is a disorganized mess, way worse than Geralt has remembered it. With a grimace, he starts to throw everything away that has very obviously expired. “God, you could have sorted through the fridge at least once while I was away, love. What did you do today?”

“Oh, I was just here and there, meeting Priscilla, visiting a doctor – it’s nothing serious, nothing serious at all,” he adds when Geralt shoots him a worried look. There is something fragile about his smile that causes Geralt to worry even more. “Just an annual check before Christmas, that’s all. Stop looking like that – I’m expiring just like the bag of milk in your hand, it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Dandelion,” Geralt says and watches Dandelion avoid his gaze. “Why are you talking like that?”

Dandelion says nothing for a long time before he sighs and worries at the seam of his slightly disheveled shirt. “Sorry,” he finally says, “I’ve been pretty busy for the last days, I decided to write a new song while you were away. I mean, maybe it’ll also be a ballad, I’m not sure yet, the process is going a bit slower than I’m used to. Maybe it’ll flow more easily now that you’re back.”

“You already told me that, Dandelion,” Geralt says softly, the bag of milk forgotten in his hands. 

“Well,” Dandelion says airily after a slight pause that cuts through the air, “It’s important enough to say it twice. Now stop looking at me like that and throw that away.”

_How to tell friends you have Alzheimers_

“I can’t find my glasses,” Dandelion says quietly. It causes Geralt to sigh and open his eyes, sitting up from where he is stretched out on the couch. The nap he intended to take seems to be out of reach; Dandelion has rummaged through the entire apartment for more than half an hour by now, cursing softly under his breath the entire time. It is something he has started to do in spring, carrying the behavior well into summer and it drives Geralt absolutely mad.

“They are right here,” he says and tries to be patient, but his voice is stretched thin as he points at Dandelion’s head where the glasses glint in his hair. Dandelion takes them into his hands with considerable surprise and looks at them as if seeing them for the first time.

“These are not my glasses,” he says and Geralt rubs his face.

“They are, Dandelion,” he answers, “I don’t wear glasses and nobody else lives there. They can only belong to you – besides, I bought them for you, two months ago, remember?”

“I know my glasses, these are not my glasses,” Dandelion insists, clutching the glasses harder in his hand. “My glasses are thinner, with a green frame –“

“You broke them two months ago when you accidentally stepped on them. That’s why I bought you new ones – the glasses you are holding right now,” Geralt answers and stands up, wandering over towards Dandelion. His lover says nothing for a long while, just looking at the glasses in silence, before he unfolds them and puts them on his nose. 

“Well, I can see with them,” he observes quietly, “So it does not really matter who they belong to, they’re mine now. Are they pretty enough that I can go out with them?”

“You want to go out?” Geralt asks, cocking his head a little and looking at the silky red pajamas Dandelion is still wearing. “Don’t you want to change first?”

“Why? I look nice.”

“You can’t go out in your pajamas,” Geralt says slowly, trying to stay as calm as possible. Dandelion’s breath hitches when he gently, very gently takes his hand and pulls him up the stairs. When they arrive, Dandelion has apparently come to the same conclusion, which is a relief, and Geralt watches him get dressed. “You should shave.”

“Right,” Dandelion agrees, his voice still unusually soft and subdued. He walks into the bathroom and Geralt watches him shave, helps him bind his hair together in a loose ponytail. “I’m meeting Priscilla,” he tells Geralt and adds, “I’ve written it in my calendar. I don’t know what I’d do without it.”

“Tell her I said hello,” Geralt answers and softly strokes Dandelion’s hair. Dandelion looks at him with bright blue eyes and smiles, even though it does not feel like a smile at all. Something in Geralt’s chest stops doing what it is supposed to do and they look at each other in silence for a long moment. There is something at the tip of Dandelion’s tongue, Geralt can see it clearly, has seen it for a while now, waits for it to come out, but it never does, almost as if Dandelion was afraid of it. He has seemed tired and subdued a lot of times lately and Geralt misses it, the bouncing steps of youth Dandelion showed when they met for the first time, all those years ago, and the shame he feels for missing it burns deep. There is beauty in Dandelion even now, and ever will be, but his disorganization and easily distracted personality has worsened over the last year and it is not as easy to live together with him as it used to be.

“I’ll write it down,” Dandelion says, reaching out and cupping Geralt’s cheek in one hand. Geralt smiles and kisses the tips of his fingers – and then Dandelion is gone, walking out of the house with a dazzling laughter as if nothing ever could be wrong with the world.


	2. Middle Stage

_Life expectancy Alzheimer_

Geralt gets a recording device for Dandelion, to gather his frazzled thoughts. By now they both know what is wrong, yet neither of them openly addresses it. They both know and that is what is important. Dandelion accepts the gift gratefully, at least he seems to be grateful, and Geralt is glad. Maybe things can get better. He is willing to do whatever it takes.

Dandelion starts to write solely on computer now. He who has always preferred the romantic side of paper and ink puts both aside to hit the keys slowly, and a little slower every day, but with determination. 

"A few years," the doctor told them, hurrying to add, "About seven to ten, I would say. He is not that old yet."

A birthday passes by, then another. Geralt dreads the rising and sinking sun now, dreads clocks and calendars. Dandelion does not mind; with every passing day, he minds a little less and still hits the keys with determination. He does not tell Geralt what he is writing, guarding it fiercely.

“It’s a gift,” he tells him and smiles, kissing Geralt’s cheeks. He still is beautiful, if only a little ruffled. Geralt does not mind the ruffled part, and yet, he does. 

“I don’t need a gift,” he says.

Dandelion smiles even more before he openly laughs and puts his hands on Geralt’s hips, a gesture that has become scarce over the last few months. “Everyone needs gifts,” he says, “and I still have some to give. I still have something to give.”

_How to remeber beter_

“Another one?” Geralt says with a glance at the dictionary he has just stumbled over, rubbing his shin in the progress. Dandelion barely looks up from where he sits on the floor between stacks of dictionaries of all kinds, shirt hanging open, pants nowhere to be seen, his nose deeply buried between pages he holds between his trembling fingers. 

“I know you don’t approve of my studies, father,” he says dismissively, “But it’s not as if you truly needed my assistance anyways.”

Geralt slowly sits down next to him and equally slowly exhales his breath. He wants to touch Dandelion, but he does not. Instead he says, “Dandelion, look at me.”

“No more ‘Julian Alfred, get this nonsense of becoming a musician out of your head!’, father?” Dandelion asks and finally looks up, only to wrinkle his forehead in confusion. “You’re not my father. Who are you?”

“I’m Geralt,” Geralt says helplessly. “I’m your lover. You know me, Dandelion.”

“Ah,” Dandelion says. After a moment, his expression clears up and he smiles almost indulgently. “Of course I know who you are, Geralt. I was only joking.”

“Of course,” Geralt echoes. Dandelion smiles a little more before he lowers his head into the dictionary again. His fingers still tremble. He has not touched a guitar in a year now. Geralt looks at his hands and suddenly fiercely misses it, misses the moments where he found Dandelion on the balcony, on the couch, in the kitchen with his beloved guitar in his hands and a new tune. He would gift them to Geralt sometimes, with a simple “For you, from the bottom of my heart”. Back then, Geralt did not really appreciate them, only rolled his eyes instead. Now, he wants to turn back time, to hear them all again and guard them, fiercely, against his chest like the treasure they were. 

“You know,” Dandelion says softly and does not look up, “There are two things I have so little of now.”

“Which things?”

“Time,” says Dandelion, “and words. So little words. What is life with no words?”

“You don’t need words when you’re with me,” Geralt replies and crawls closer to gently touch Dandelion’s neck. “Even when you’re quiet, even when you’re saying nothing at all, I know you. I know you so well, Dandelion.”

“But I,” says Dandelion, breath catching in his throat for the tiniest moment before he lowers his head and accepts Geralt’s touch, leans in it after a while and closes his eyes. “I don’t know,” he finally finishes, voice so quiet that Geralt barely understands him. “I don’t know anymore. And I don’t know who to make it come back. Everything. I only have what I still have. I need to remember, but there is nothing. There was so much, and I should know. I should know. But I don’t. And if I can’t – can’t get it back, what is left of me?”

Geralt does not have the words Dandelion needs and the knowledge is a bitter pill to swallow. There is something that does not let him breathe evenly anymore; he tries to find comfort in Dandelion’s presence, his smell, his lips, but there is sadness that hangs around him like a heavy cloak and weighs him down these days, these bleak days.

If only dictionaries were enough. Geralt would buy all of them, every single one.

_Find feisbook paasword_

“Geralt,” Dandelion says one day. His lips are trembling as much as his hands and he walks slowly, carefully, as if walking over shards. Geralt is with him in an instant and gently helps him onto the couch, buttons his shirt and brushes his hair back from his face. 

“What do you need?” he asks and tries to be as gentle as possible. Dandelion has had his outbursts lately, violent, unpredictable ones, ones that caused him to cry afterwards when he realized what he had done, and Geralt tries to save them both from these situations with tenderness. 

“I can’t get in,” Dandelion says. “In the…in the internet. The page. The blue one. I forgot the word. Forgot to write it down.” 

“The blue page?” Geralt repeats and wrinkles his forehead in though when Dandelion nods, placing his hands in his lap like a little boy getting reprimanded. Geralt does not notice the level of distress right away and when he does, it is too late; Dandelion is already crying quietly. It is a heart-wrenching sight; this, Geralt thinks and gently strokes Dandelion’s back, is what dying must be like. “It’s all right, Dandelion. You mean Facebook, right?” 

Dandelion nods and cries even more, placing his head in his hand and openly weeping. “I can’t find the words. I can’t open it. I looked in the internet for them, but I can’t find them.” 

“I know the password,” Geralt says and continues to stroke his lover’s back. “We can log in together. What do you want with it?” 

“Close it,” says Dandelion between two sobs, “Close it for good. I’m stupid now. I’m wilting.” 

“You’re not,” Geralt replies with more force than necessary because he has to, wants to believe. “But we can delete your account. It’s no problem.” 

“Everything is a problem,” Dandelion says and hides his face against Geralt’s chest. Geralt, helpless and breathless, can do nothing except touch him and tell him how much he loves him, so he does exactly that. 


	3. Final

_Life after death_

Afterwards, Geralt only thinks about the better days, the ones that were already difficult, but all in all still manageable, even though Dandelion was already a little gone, and a little more gone every day, until there was nothing anymore, nothing at all. But in the better days, they still had things to cling onto, so Geralt in return clings on them now, tries to remember them as well as he can, even though it hurts so much sometimes.

Sometimes he dreams of that day in November where they sat together in silence, Dandelion staring out of the window and Geralt next to him, trying to provide some much-needed warmth and distraction. Dandelion had been quiet for a long time by then, so Geralt startled a little when he suddenly asked, “What comes after death?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt replied without thinking, “I don’t think there’s much afterwards. I think we all just…die.” Now, afterwards, he regrets not saying something more encouraging, more positive. It is one of the little mistakes he will never be able to set right again. 

“Just die,” Dandelion echoed. He closed his eyes; Geralt remembers the tiredness etched into the deep lines of his face, his youth faded, even though he was still heartbreakingly beautiful to him back in those better days. “I’m afraid. Easy for a Witcher to feel nothing for death.”

“I’m afraid of death too,” Geralt said and did not say, “I am afraid of your death,” did not say, “I am afraid of staying behind,” did not say, “I am afraid of experiencing death only when everyone else has already died years and years ago.” 

Dandelion opened his eyes and looked at him. “I think I will be at home,” he said and smiled, so tired and so resigned, aware of his sickness and yet fully unaware at the same time. “I will be at home with Geralt.”

“You are at home, Dandelion. This is home.”

“This is not home,” Dandelion replied and smiled again – and how it hurts, this smile, even now, afterwards, how it hurt in the better days as well when it cut through his heart like a kitchen knife slicing through butter. “This is merely waiting.”

“Waiting?”

“For the right time to go home.”

_Deppresion syndroums_

Afterwards, Geralt only thinks of the better days, or at least he tries to. The truth is that even the better days were the beginning of the end and he cannot think of them without bitterness and grief. How unable he was to make it better. How unable he was to help his lover. How little there was he could do except watching and being there, both things so entirely unfulfilling and frustrating in the face of Dandelion’s sadness and loneliness. 

“I need pills,” Dandelion told him one day, pulling on the hem of Geralt’s shirt with urgency. “Pills for happiness. I am sad. I need pills.”

How easy it is to remember what he felt back then, standing there in their living room and looking at the man he loved, such a clever, smart man, a man who recognized even back then that something was not right, even though he did not have the capacity to understand what exactly it was that made him feel sad. It was life’s irony hitting him with all it had. 

He can remember saying, “We will get you pills,” because there was no point in arguing – Dandelion would not have understood anyways, would have only taken it as willful malice, which in turn would have led to one of the temper tantrums Dandelion had had so many of lately. That way, Dandelion’s reaction was just a soft smile and a satisfied nod, only for him to ask again ten minutes later, and again later that evening, and every time Geralt gave the same answer, unwavering in his attempts to put Dandelion’s thoroughly muddled mind at peace for at least a bit. 

It was in those days where Dandelion ceased to write almost entirely, staring at Geralt in confusion and befuddlement when Geralt tried to suggest it, at least until he stopped making those suggestions since they only frightened or angered Dandelion even more. He mourns them now more than ever, all those words lost to the fog in Dandelion’s mind, lost to the wicked ways of life that tended to take away people’s most amazing talents. What an ungrateful way it was to go; the only consolation Geralt could get out of it was a bitter one: at least Dandelion understood less and less what exactly he was losing and to which great extent.

There was a time where, as he still clearly remembers, quietly cursed Dandelion for being a coward and not taking his own life before things could get worse than they already were in those better days. What an awful, egoistic way of thinking that was, what an awful, desperate way of thinking truly. And still, he cannot help but think in some quiet, lonely nights that it would have spared them both so much: a lot of humiliation and sadness, a lot of indignity and bitter days. 

What he would not have given for pills to cure the bitter days.

_Geralt of Rivia_

Afterwards, Geralt tries not to think of the bitter days, of the moments where Dandelion cried himself to sleep and did not know why, where he could not tell what was wrong, where he forgot which year and time and country it was and who those people around him were, including Geralt, where he talked of Geralt like a figure out of a legend, a distant abstract that used to belong to him, where he wet and shat himself and did not even remember to be ashamed of it. He tries not to think of the days where Dandelion forgot that there even was someone like Dandelion at all, talking of things he had never done and places he had never seen, and never would. He tries not to think of the moments where Dandelion had been lucid in those bitter days because they probably were the hardest thing to burden in all the mess since they meant that Dandelion was aware, that he was still in that shell his body had become, turning into a coffin all on its own.

He tries not to think of one of their last conversations in those half-lucid moments where Dandelion looked at him with a smile and said, “I’m so happy I’ll be home soon. I miss him so much. I want to be with him again. You wouldn’t understand, I suppose, what an astonishing thing of beauty Geralt of Rivia is. I myself have almost forgotten…but I know he is waiting for me. Despite all the hemming and hawing he does, he always waits for me.” And he tries not to think of the pain he felt back then, tries not to think of it as anything except proof of how much Dandelion loved him, always has loved him, so romantically and fiercely as he could with his passionate, giving nature. 

Geralt tries not to think of those bitter days where he had learned how to take care of someone who had forgotten how to walk and could only lay around in bed, who needed to be remembered how to eat and who looked at him with hollow, hollow eyes, smiling without meaning, sighing without cause, crying with no reason.

He tries not to think of how he had found Dandelion one morning, motionless in his bed, finally at peace after five horrible, horrible peace, and he tries not to think of how the first thought that had popped into his mind was that it had been time and what a relief it was – and how horrible that relief was, how much loneliness and grief it meant. He has learned how much: every day a little more instead of a little less, missing the potential and greatness and beauty of the man he had loved and did not know how to live without after so many years together.

Now, afterwards, he has kept their house and has kept Dandelion’s belongings as well. When it rains and drops splatter against their windows, he listens to his songs, circling through all of his albums and the unfinished demos that will forever be his alone to listen to. When it is night and dark outside except for the stars blinking on the sky, he reads his letters and emails, all the little text messages and cheeky notes hidden in the most impossible corners of the house. Not a day passes where he does not hope to stumble upon more of them, of Dandelion, of times long past. Wherever he goes, whatever he does, Dandelion is with him in all his brilliance, a brilliance that is unmarred by all the bitter days. He lives, and Dandelion is living with him, forever untouched by the fear of being forgotten, forever perfectly preserved in thoughts and deeds.

There is no heaven for a Witcher, this Geralt knows quite well – and yet, he knows that they will be together one day, together and whole again after all the pain of the bitter days.

Now, afterwards, it is with a wistful smile that he dreams of going home.


End file.
